The Fugitive

The wind, and the wind, and the wind
whirring here and there and back as
shoes click morse code to the ground,
tumult, and tumult, and tumult again.

He flees because he knows the truth.

It's the same motion paced to the same space
in a different location each time, frantic
then wary, then frantic again.

He flees because he knows what is safe.

There is no blood trail to him, no path
to follow to catch him, the fugitive, guilty
of running away, only of running away.

He flees because it is his hope.

The clicks turn to stamping, as it begins
to snow. He has only the river to clear,
sloshing slowly from one bank to another.

He fears he cannot tell the truth.

The wind, and the wind, and the wind
pushing him downstream with the water,
shoes slipping in the muddy water
from tumult, and tumult again.

The fugitive flees because the truth
cannot be told from inside of a box.